


Tartans

by Zoya1416



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse of Scottish Slang, Humor, M/M, Tartans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: Crowley learns one good use for tartan.





	

Crowley came back to consciousness slowly. There had been smoke, yells, the smack of weapons, the sound of slashing swords, the crack of rifles—and something which had completely smashed the heaven out of his head. Also—the sound of bagpipes. He hated bagpipes. Was he in the 17th century? There were all those Scottish civil wars, which he'd abetted on both sides. He had the dim idea it hadn't been the 1600's when he was last awake.

When he was more fully awake, he saw the angel kneeling beside him, in a bright red and green kilt. An impressive long sword lay next to him, with an unusual weaved hilt.

“Och! Y'r awake. Y'eve got a sare heid.” 

“Angel! What happened?” He dimly recognized that he was lying on crushed grass. He could smell it. It was also drier and warmer than he usually associated with Scotland. 

"If yur tired, try fur a kip, that's a good fellow.” 

Instead of sleeping, Crowley looked around. He seemed to be on a battlefield of some kind. There were soldiers which had been arrayed evenly on two sides, but now pushed each other back and forth. Those rifles looked primitive. What year was this? 

“What”—

“Dinnae fash y'sel.” 

Crowly listened closer—there were no screams such as those of dying men, with curses and prayers, and—was that a whistle? And the sounds of battle died down. 

“Angel—are you wearing that ridiculous kilt because we are somewhere in Scottish history?” 

“Stap yer havering. We'll have you home again in a moment.” 

The armies had stopped fighting, and he saw the soldiers—slapping each other on the back, and bringing out drinks from the side of the battle, some in wooden tankards—some in not. Red? When had the Scots developed red tankards? 

“Here. Have a tassie. It's only lager, I'm afraid, dear boy, but there wasn't time to change it to wine.”  


“You do realize that you are speaking Scottish slang as well as English. And I—this is a basket-hilt sword, but you're wearing modern tartan instead of that dull stuff I remember—is this like the Order of the Chattering Nuns? Some kind of weekend war?” 

“Och, Crowley, what a numpty you are.” 

His head was hurting fiercely, and he accepted the lager, in a red-was this plastic? cup, he noted), without complaining.  
Suddenly his senses cleared. There was the smell, not just of wood smoke, but of petrol. And the unmistakable growl of car engines. 

He glared at Aziraphale, and snapped his sunglasses back into existence. 

“We're here in some kind of ridiculous reenactment scheme. I thought only the Americans had those.” 

Aziraphale grimaced. “It was my, our, idea to visit the cursed Tadfield Manor Conference and—”

“I remember the place,” Crowley said grimly. 

“Well, since she had started using Scottish history and swords, I, we, wanted to make sure it stayed non-lethal." 

Crowley had known the angel for so many millenia that he could tell the instant he started lying. For one thing, he was terribly bad at it. The small beads of sweat always gave him away. 

“It was all your idea, this whole lunatic trip." He glared at the angel.

Aziraphale muttered about some how people were grumpy and needed to take a break from wiling. He packed up the—modern— first aid kit. He murmured, “hold on, hen,” as he swept up Crowley in his arms and shot out of the battlefield in a crack of white wings.

Crowley came back to consciousness again as he lay on his own couch. The angel was facing away from him, bending over to light a totally unnecessary fire, and giving Crowley a very good angle of view. The rumors were true, then.

“Well, angel, whatever that was all about, I have to say I do see why you like tartan now. That kilt is quite a DEVILISH look on you.”

Aziraphale whirled, smoothing down his kilt and blushing. But he stepped closer to the couch, quirking his lips.“If we're trading those kind of remarks, I must say, I liked YOU better in a toga." 

“Shut up, ye wee dafty, and get over here."


End file.
